Читать книгу Songs Ysame - Johnston Annie Fellows - Страница 4

OH, voices of the old, old days,

Speak once again to me,

I walk alone the old, old ways

And miss your melody.

To-night I close my tired eyes

And hear the rain drip slow,

And dream a hand is on my brow

That pressed it long ago.

My thoughts stray through the lonely night

Until I seem to see

Home faces, in the firelight,

That always smiled on me.

Those shadows dancing on the walls

Are not by embers cast,

They are the forms my heart recalls

From out the happy past.

Forgotten is the gathering gloom,

The night's deep loneliness,

As round me in the silent room

With noiseless tread they press.

Though in the dark the rain sobs on,

I heed its sound no more;

For voices of the old, old days

Are calling as of yore.

AS we would touch with soft caress the brow

Of one who dreams, the spell of sleep to break,

Across the yellowed keys I sweep my hand,

The old, remembered music to awake;

But something drops from out those melodies —

There are some silent keys.

So is it when I call to those I loved,

Who blessed my life with tender care and fond:

So is it with those early dreams and hopes,

Some voices answer and some notes respond,

But in the chords that I would strike, like these,

There are some silent keys.

Heart, dost thou hear not in those pauses fall

A still, small voice that speaks to thee of peace?

What though some hopes may fail, some dreams be lost,

Though sometimes happy music break and cease.

We might miss part of heaven's minstrelsies

But for these silent keys.